


Tomorrow Shall Be My Dancing Day

by TaraTheMeerkat



Category: Father Brown - G. K. Chesterton
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Slash, Slow Dancing, but they're both too awkward to make a move, it's about the yearning, this is set at that awkward stage in their relationship, where they're both aware that there's something there and they're more than just friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:35:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27997617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraTheMeerkat/pseuds/TaraTheMeerkat
Summary: Flambeau has accepted an invitation to a Christmas party of Father Brown's behalf, and Father Brown is not best pleased. Can Flambeau  really teach him to dance in just a few hours?Written for the Crime & Christmas 2020 challenge, prompt 6: Dance
Relationships: Father Brown/M. Hercule Flambeau
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10
Collections: Crime & Christmas 2020





	Tomorrow Shall Be My Dancing Day

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY SO Flambeau's cat doesn't have a name in canon, but in the Colonial Radio Theatre radio show, Flambeau's cat is called Raffles, which is clearly perfect, and I mean I have to call the cat something, so now the cat is called Raffles in my bookverse fics too, I'm sure you all understand.

“Oh, _Flambeau!”_ Father Brown protested, miserably. “Must we go to this wretched party?”

Flambeau, who stood towering above the little priest in an _extremely_ fetching suit, complete with velvet jacket and silk waistcoat, sighed. “ _Yes_ , Father,” he said. “I already promised Lady Wainwright.”

It was true her Ladyship had invited the two of them in particular, to show her gratitude toward the two men for their help in retrieving her diamonds. She really had seemed most keen for the both of them to be there. However, Father Brown couldn’t help but think if this was an act of gratitude, a kind of reward, he’d have been happier with a simple thank you letter. Father Brown was not fond of parties at the best of times.

Or rather, Father Brown was not fond of _these_ kinds of parties. The large childish streak in him very much enjoyed children’s parties, with party games and magicians and jellies and all manner of merriment and gaiety. In fact, he had even been called upon to entertain at a few children’s parties himself, when no-one else was available. His card tricks were legendary among the right sort of circles, and his juggling improved more and more with every practice.

He enjoyed small intimate gatherings, where just being there is enough and celebrated, it doesn’t matter what you wear or what your social standing is, and no-one expects anything of you.

For his sins, he secretly enjoyed raucous get-togethers in pubs that were little more than an excuse to get drunk and sing mildly rude songs, if he had a good friend or two to drink with.

Lady Wainwright’s Famous Christmas Party, however, was not Father Brown’s idea of a good party in the slightest. It was that very upper class idea of what a party is; people who dislike each other pretending to make polite small talk over a meal consisting of far more portions than any sensible person could possibly want, people wearing real jewels for no reason other than to show off to their rivals that they could afford them and afford to wear them as though they were nothing, people conversing with people not because they particularly liked them but just to advance their social standing in some way, and dancing. Oh, of course there would be dancing.

“Technically, it was only you who promised. We could pretend I am not available. We could pretend I have been summoned to Rome to see his Holiness, and I could hide here, in your flat,” Father Brown babbled foolishly.

Flambeau raised an eyebrow at him. “That would be lying, Father,” he said, with a wry smile. “And I thought lying was a sin.”

“Oh,” said Father Brown, sheepishly. “Well, yes, I suppose it is. But honesty isn’t always exactly the right or kind thing to do, either.”

Flambeau sat down in the armchair opposite Father Brown, with a gentle elegance strangers never seemed to expect of a man of his size and build, but to which Father Brown was accustomed. “Father,” he said with a sigh. “I can’t leave you here on your own, while I go off and party.”

“I wouldn’t be on my own!” Father Brown protested. “Raffles is here!” He scratched the fat Persian cat in question, currently curled up on the Father’s lap, behind the ear fondly. Father Brown had always got on remarkably well with all animals. They were much less worry than people. The cat gave a yawn in response, and softly licked the Father’s fingertips. “You have such an easy life, Raffles,” the priest cooed, softly. “No-one ever invites you to Lady Wainwright’s Christmas party. All you have to do is sit around looking sweet, and occasionally Flambeau here will feed you and cuddle you, won’t he?”

Flambeau snorted. “Father,” he said, clearly fighting and failing to keep the amusement out of his voice. “Do be sensible.”

“Oh, what fun is there in being sensible, Flambeau?” Father Brown cried out in genuine misery. “One _tires_ of being sensible, you know. Why _can’t_ I be a little silly and stubborn and childish sometimes?”

Flambeau sighed and leaned forwards in the chair, speaking in his softest voice. “You really don’t want to go, do you, Father?”

“No,” said Father Brown, miserably. “There shall be dancing, Flambeau. I shall be expected to dance, I just know it.”

“Indeed.” The Frenchman spoke, face barely giving away any emotion, save for a tiny quirk of the eyebrow, barely noticeable to someone who had not spent many hours gazing at said face. “Lady Wainwright shall be expecting a dance _with_ you, Father Brown. She seems to have become rather enamoured with you.”

Father Brown recoiled in horror. “She’s _what?”_

Flambeau gave the tiniest of smiles. “I’m afraid so, old thing.” He patted the Father briefly on the knee, causing Raffles to mewl in protest. “Understandable, really. You’re everything her husband isn’t. He’s so cold, and distant, and sharp, and cruel, and brutish.” The Frenchman’s voice took on a strange, faraway tone. “Whereas you, Father, you’re… You’re soft. You’re soft, and kind, and clever, and warm.” He sighed. “What sort of fool wouldn’t fall in love with you, given the situation, Father?” he added, on a quiet voice, breaking his gaze and staring at a spot above the fireplace on the far wall, an odd blush creeping across his face.

“Oh,” said the Father, equally quietly, a strange tumultuous feeling brewing in his chest.

“It’s about time you had the British nobility after you too, Father,” said Flambeau, with a sudden twinkle in his eye. “You know Lord Hawtree wants me to marry his daughter?”

For reasons he dared not think too deeply on, this revelation filled Father Brown with an even deeper horror. “Good Lord,” said the Father, in barely disguised panic. “You’re not going to, are you?”

The former thief raised an eyebrow had him. “I’d be a very rich man if I did, Father. But no. The Hawtree girl is perfectly sweet, I’m sure, but she’s far too young for me, and very much not my type. Besides,” he leaned back in his chair, lounging casually, the very picture of mildly disinterested elegance. “What would I want with a great big country estate, Father? I’m much happier here in London. I have a little flat, a little office, a little cat, and a little priest, what more could I possibly want?”

Strange as it may seem, it made the Father flush with glee to be counted amongst his friend’s prized possessions. “You could always take me with you,” he said, softly.

Flambeau laughed, a brash sound, but strangely melodic to the priest’s ears. “Lord Flambeau of the manor and his live-in priest? People would talk, Father.”

Father Brown hummed. “People always do,” he said. “People say all sorts of things when they don’t know you’re listening. People like you and I, Flambeau, we already stand out, what with my profession, your height and accent, and both our reputations. Whispers follow us, and rumours only spread. I’ve learnt not to let it bother me. Only God knows the truth.”

Flambeau tilted his head to one side, considering the little priest in silence for a moment, before abruptly speaking. “Well,” he said. “If it’s the dancing that’s worrying you, how about a little rehearsal?”

Father Brown blinked at him in that owlish way of his. “But Flambeau,” he said, wearily. “I _can’t_ dance. I’ve always been quite useless at dancing.”

“Nonsense,” Flambeau briskly said, getting to his feet. “You’ve simply never had a good enough teacher, is all.”

“You can’t teach me to dance in a matter of hours, Flambeau!” the priest protested.

Flambeau tutted. “You hardly need to be competition standard, Father. You merely need to not tread on anyone’s feet and you’ll be fine. Most of the party guests will be far too inebriated to notice, I assure you.”

Father Brown watched as Flambeau lithely padded across the cluttered room in just three wide strides, his hips swaying as though he were already dancing as he swerved to avoid a very ornate coffee table that didn’t match anything else in the room at all. Watching Flambeau move was always strangely hypnotising, mesmerising, Father Brown thought. He didn’t know how Flambeau had managed to blend in so well as a thief, even as clever as he was, for whenever Flambeau was in a room, Father Brown was unable to take his eyes off of him. Flambeau placed a record onto a large gramophone that sat on top of a low bookshelf against the wall, and, as crackly music began to fill the room, he effortless lifted the coffee table in question, placed it out of the way, and held out a hand to the still-staring priest.

“Come, Father,” he said, softly, his eyes twinkling and his face full of warmth. “Let’s dance.”

Despite his better judgement, Father Brown lifted the softly purring cat off his lap, gently placed it down on the chair with another gentle pat, and walked across the room to take his friend’s outstretched hand. Large, calloused fingers gently wrapped themselves around his own small soft hand, treating it with as much care has he might’ve treated a diamond, in his criminal days. No, more care than that, even; Father Brown recalled all too well the famous flying stars being dropped out of a tree, and landing unceremoniously in the mud at his feet. Flambeau gave the nervous priest a small, encouraging smile. As though in a dream, or a trance, the Father stepped closer, shivering unconsciously as a strong arm was put around him, holding him closer still. “Just followed my lead, Father,” murmured a soft, warm French burr from above him, sounding for all the world like a voice in a dream. “Just do as I do.”

Father Brown gingerly snaked an arm around Flambeau’s broad back. He was warm, and solid, and Brown could feel the firmness of his muscles even beneath his velvet jacket.

“Follow my lead, Father,” Flambeau repeated. “Watch my feet.” And they slowly began to waltz around the room.

Or rather, Flambeau began to waltz around the room. Father Brown awkwardly tripped, and stumbled, and trod on Flambeau’s toes, mumbling out frenzied little “sorry!”s and “I do beg your pardon!”s as he did so.

Flambeau stopped, and sighed. “You’re unfocused, Father,” he said, painfully patiently.

 _In my defence,_ Father Brown thought. _I am finding focusing singularly difficult right now._ But all he said out loud was another quiet, miserable, “Sorry.”

Flambeau sighed again, tightening his grip around the little priest, but not in an uncomfortable way. It was really rather pleasant. “Relax, Father,” he said. “You’re too tense. Just relax.”

Father Brown took a deep breath, and did his best to relax. He leaned into Flambeau’s broad chest, close enough to feel the warmth of his body, to hear his heart beating, to hear his breath catch in his throat, almost undetectably. He did his best to match his breathing to that of his friend. It was truly hypnotising. He barely even noticed when they began dancing once more, slowly this time.

Of course, he still tripped, and stumbled, and fumbled, but it didn’t seem to matter so much anymore. He thought he began to understand what Flambeau meant about focusing; he didn’t have to focus on his feet, that was entirely the problem. Instead, he focused on Flambeau. He focused on the two of them, so close. Two people, so different, but moving as one. He supposed that was what dancing _was,_ and he supposed further that that was what the two of them had been doing since the day they met. One of the two of you moves, the other moves in response, and eventually you realise that you’re moving in perfect unison, that you’ve come together to create something new, and exciting, and beautiful. A strange dance, but an old one, and a good one.

He was unsurprised to find he was grinning widely as the music came to an end and they broke apart, Flambeau smiling back at him in response.

“See, Father?” the tall detective said, proudly. “Nothing to it.”

“Yes,” said the Father, a touch of uncertainty still in his voice. “You just need the right partner.”

Flambeau gave a small faraway smile, and a minute nod. “Yes. Well,” he said. “At least you should be able to give Lady Wainwright one dance this evening without major disaster.”

“Hmmm.” Father Brown shifted on his feet, but he nodded in return. “Alright. Thank you.”

Flambeau paused, looking at him once more with his head tilted to one side, in that careful, considering way of his, then suddenly, without warning, he gently took Father Brown’s hand in his own again, bringing it to his lips, brushing the faintest and politest of kisses to the priest’s fingers. “Thank you for letting me have this dance, Father,” he said, with a low theatrical bow.

Father Brown laughed softly, fondly. “For you, Flambeau?” he said. “Always.” And he gave his own theatrical bow.

And in its own way, the dance continued.


End file.
